


Very Good Bad Thing

by vandom3



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Based on a Mother Mother Song, Boys Kissing, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minecraft, Mutual Pining, Song: Very Good Bad Thing (Mother Mother), Symbolism, aha tags, both perspectives, hyper-realistic minecraft, my first work it sucks, sort of idk, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29297343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandom3/pseuds/vandom3
Summary: Inspired by the song Very Good Bad Thing by Mother Mother!! Both perspectives of a hyper-realistic Minecraft manhunt as they both pine for one another. Eventual semi-smut
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 39





	1. George

**Author's Note:**

> AAAaa hello! I've had this idea for a while now because I love the song Very Good Bad Thing by Mother Mother, so I decided to finally write it (also because I'd rather do this than math homework (: ) 
> 
> This is my first fanfiction ever because I've never had the motivation to write, but here this is. Please leave any criticisms in the comments <3 all I do is read fanfics so if this is similar to any others you've read that's why lmao.
> 
> Also! last note, ofc this is simply fiction so please don't take the shipping too seriously
> 
> I lied- one more very important note. this has 2 chapters because the second chapter switches to Dream's perspective, but it's still 3rd person all the way through. enjoy!

“ _ Georgieeee _ ,” He hears the call from behind him. Despite being hunted, severely out of breath, and having no hope for survival, he relishes the way his friend says his name. Always maniacal, but with daftness, endearing even. 

After running further now, the sand under his feet is slowly fading into dull grass. With a glance over his shoulder, he sees his friend, tall and green-clad, heading towards what he had mistaken for any other mound of sand.  _ Fuck  _ he breathes, the loot in the temple long gone.

With some time on his hands, George looks through his own belongings. Bare and vulnerable he eats the last of his bread and makes a stone sword with some sticks found from a bush. George equips his most valuable item, his shield, and gathers in his surroundings.

Squinting forward he can make out silhouettes of tall trees, the flat canopy forming a line on the horizon letting only peeks of the setting sun through. Before Dream can get any more of an advantage against him, he’s off. Sprinting through tall savannah grasses and a lava pit, which might have been useful if he didn’t feel his hunter’s presence quickly gaining behind him. 

Beads of sweat drip from the brunet’s hairline, cascading down flushed skin. Despite bordering on dusk, the temperature kept rising. Running for hours on end and the spread of the jungle’s muggy atmosphere surely made his condition worse. Without thinking of the approaching night, George sheds his sweatshirt scattered with tears from a previous fight he narrowly escaped. Now in just a blue t-shirt, he feels lighter but significantly more exposed, his thin but toned arms susceptible. No matter, he hastily wipes his brow with some part of the hoodie and tosses it aside. 

George makes it to the entrance of the jungle without another conflict. Quickly he ascends a tree, grasping onto a vine and swinging himself up to a branch near the top of the canopy. He gasps for air through the leaves, but the humidity fills his lungs again instead. He secures himself on the perch, back pressed against the wood and his bag in his arms. Out of mindless exhaustion, he reaches in for some food, water maybe of which he has neither. 

George lets out a sigh which comes out as more of an incorrigible sound of defeat. He’s secured in the vast overgrowth of dark green, but he knows he can’t stay up here forever. He needs to search for food, gather wood, do  _ anything  _ really before Dream catches up with him, but he doesn’t. His legs are glued to the safety of the branch even when danger comes sprinting for him by the very second. 

His limbs hang down under him unable to move him up and his head spins. Lazily swatting a mosquito that lands on his arm,

_ Snap! _

Still in his haze, he looks down at his hand -  _ Did he make that sound? _

_ Snap! _

There it is again- it definitely wasn’t himself. Whatever delirium came over him quickly dissipated as he stood wearily on the branch, careful to not break it. He grasps upward into the treetops and grips onto a handful of thin twigs. His pull breaks the darkness as the evening’s last breaths of sunlight fade in and cast shadows across his pale skin. Before he can shade his eyes from the sudden light the voice comes from below.

_ The voice _ . The one his heart yearns for but his head loathes.

“George,” He steadies himself, holds his breath. He needs to run -  _ why isn’t he running? _

He looks down carefully. There is he is - practically camouflaged in the sea of green which appears yellowish to him. The vines, his clothes, his hair. George’s breath falters-  _ run George, why are you not running?! _

The voice echoes out again, “I can’t believe you missed that temple, you’re such a  _ newb.” _ This time it was entertaining and inviting. He loved their banter, no matter how frightening Dream could get at times. 

“ _ Shut up,” _ his usual poke slipped out of his mouth, hopefully quiet enough to not have caught his hunter’s attention. When the words escaped his brain and bled out into the dense air, he shut his mouth with a pop. George held his breath as he watched below. Dream’s head shifted at the sound, but not yet placing where it came from.

Dream let out a breath, the air curling upwards along with the corners of his mouth. “I heard that, George,” There it was- his name again. The feeling it leaves in the air drifts up into George’s feet gripping the branch, tingling up his legs. The sensation hesitates below his stomach, fluttering up into his throat and catching his breath.  _ George you fucking idiot. Run already, do you want to be caught? _

Does he want to be caught?

His legs start to give out, out of pure exhaustion and insufferable excitement. Something in him snaps, a fight or flight response. He spent too long frozen there, emotions stewing. Using the momentum of his fall he swings, the knuckles of both his hands white, gripping onto the flexible branches in one and his shield in the other. 

Midair he loosens his grip, flailing before he can grab another nearby vine. Without thinking of how close he was to falling to his death, he makes a few more jumps from tree to tree. Getting a rhythm of swings, his ears finally can focus on the commotion below. Dream follows closely behind, flying through the scatter of green foliage on the jungle floor.

George can feel the presence there, each arrow shot past reminding him. Adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream, flooding his limbs as he made his escape. He takes the next jump, confident after dodging another arrow, the white arrowhead flashing by like a beam of light in the growing darkness of nightfall. _ Too easy. _

But, he didn’t think. His insane spurt of courage came too late. He has no food left, and his stomach drops when he can’t reach for the next vine. George lands on the ground with a crunch, the damp forest soil breaking his fall only slightly. 

He feels like he should have died, his legs shattered under him. His face is blank in pain, too weak to let the scream in his chest out. His ears ring and his whole body numbs in anguish. George finally comes to himself, breathing heavily while searching through anything that might help. 

“ _ Fuck!”  _ He calls out impulsively, the pain of his fall boiling over. He tosses the spare sticks to the ground and clambers to his feet. He slowly limps, half health and no hunger hindering him. His exclamation hangs in the air, calling his hunter to his location. 

_ Why even bother? The one time I can’t survive is the only time I’m trying to get away? _

He freezes in his tracks when he sees him, standing there in the corner of his eyesight with an arrow pointed at him. He stares it down, focusing on the point. But this one is different, tinted what he assumes to be green and glistening sickly. The look in his face forms confusion or despair, as he catches Dream’s gaze from behind the bow. 

_ What was that? Was Dream sorry? Was it repent or just pity? _

Whatever his look shows, it’s too late. The arrow is shot and digs deep into George's heart.


	2. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is from Dream's perspective and picks up at the climax of George's chapter. The smut is towards the end of this one, but it's nothing too serious. This chapter is quite longer than the other one just fyi. I'd like to shoutout thesaurus dot com for helping me make it through this, but I'm still sorry if the words are repetitive

Dream hesitates in his step, careful to not lose track of the man swinging across vines like Tarzan. His skills are never outmatched, however. He knows he can end the hunt in one quick shot with his bow, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t hit the shots or even use one of the many more efficient and powerful methods he can use to win. Instead, he aims to just clip George, the arrows flying right past his eyes fueling his confidence. 

Dream looks up to see him dodging yet another shot, his smile spreading across his face as he grabbed another vine as if to boast to Dream, “Too easy,” he would say. Dream mindlessly runs below, bathing in the expression from the boy. It was intoxicating. 

He wants to keep calling his name.  _ George _ . Whenever the words left his lips he felt giddy and warm, like his heart was glowing. He decides against it, best to not distract the pretty boy flying through the trees despite the incredible reaction it always drew from his face. The hunt was a passion of Dream’s. He could show off his skills while having fun, but he never felt so exhilarated as when his prey was as lovely as today.

Dream has always had a thing for this - the hunt. If only George knew the only reason he did it was for him. For his confused eyes, drunken smile, and porcelain skin. Sure Dream’s ego benefited greatly from win after win, but even George after a loss was a sight to behold. 

Dream looks again to see the boy midswing with focus and fury. Quickly he draws an arrow, places it in his bow, aims, and shoots all in one motion that lasts less than a second.  _ So close _ . George smiles again, fueling the fire in the shooter’s chest. He watches as George thrashes his free hand in the direction of a vine, but his smile drops heavy. 

He watches George miss, and fall, and collapse onto the ground, not dead but not really alive. This is his chance, an easy win. He draws the green-tipped arrow from his bag and lines it up, stalking behind a tree some distance from where George landed. He hears an exacerbated cry from behind, the tone of the curse sending a shudder down Dream’s spine. Dream wants desperately to hear more sounds like that from the boy. He wonders for a second what kinds of sounds he could draw from him. 

Lingering on the thought a little too long, he pushes himself around the tree and sees a bloody mess stalking in his direction. He hasn’t seen him yet as the jungle provides a shadow over him as well as his green camouflaging in ever-darkening dusk. 

He draws the bow up, his fingertips gracing the side of his ear. He breathes in and swallows it, holding as still as possible. Before he takes his shot his eyes gaze up and down his target. He seems to limp with both legs, dragging forward. His pants have been ripped, muddied, and soaked in blood.  _ He looks good in red _ . His eyes gaze up to his chest and toned arms straining around his abdomen. 

Dream’s eyes lock in on the target right above the strap of a crossbody bag. Before he can let go he wants to stare into the brunet’s eyes once more. As he does so, his heart crumbles seeing the expression falter. There is no intoxicating smile or look of humble defeat, only pain. Without thinking, his fingers release the string, sending the arrow right where he had aimed. 

Deep in his chest he can feel the guilt rising. The world around him goes silent and the dark blue sky fades deeper, sucking the remaining light from the world. The arrow glows green in the boy's chest, casting a sick shadow on his neck and chin. His face falls flat, and he falls backward absorbing the blow. Before he can hit the floor, Dream sprints over, abandoning his bow.

He gets there with enough time to barely catch him. He holds him up with shaky arms unsure of what he is doing. The boy curls into Dream’s grasp as he bolts in pain as the poison takes the lives from him. This time is different than all of the other hunts. He always wins, George always dies. He felt no differently about George then, however. He was in love with everything the boy did, he couldn’t get enough of him. Tears form in his eyes as he sees George fading away in front of him. He won, why doesn’t he just end the misery?

Dream doesn’t want this to end, he thinks that as soon as the boy dies he will disappear from his arms, the feeling vanishing forever. He could never admit what he felt to George, or how he wants so desperately to hold him outside of the game. He reaches behind himself with one hand, grasping into his bag for an item he had found before in case something went wrong with the arrows. When he finds it, he brings the bottle of milk to George’s lips, the effect kicking in at the exact right moment to keep him alive. 

He doesn’t heal quite yet, but he hasn’t died either. His eyes rise open and glance down at his chest, the green glow growing dimmer by the second. Dream watches him as he slowly shifts his gaze upwards into his own. His deep brown eyes are overwhelmed by his pupils, dilated wide from the adjusting to the dark. When he realizes the position he is in his eyebrows turn in confusion.

“Wha-” George choked out, cut off as Dream smoothes the crease on his forehead with the pad of his callused thumb. They lie there as he trails his finger down his eyebrow, tracing his cheekbones and landing upon his lips. Dream hesitates here, gaping down at the beauty in his arms. It’s broken as George breathes out a cool breathe, sending Dream to drag his hand to the arrow still jutting outwards.

Dream swiftly unloops George’s bag from around his back, and takes a second to let the boy brace himself. He tears out the arrow, and George lets out a ghastly shriek, his back arching and then concaving with the pain.

“I- I’m so sorry,” Dream trails off, throwing the arrow aside. George breaks from the grasp Dream had on him, and shimmies away despite the grimace on his face. He misses the feeling of him already, but he’s still here with him. Maybe there is hope.

He busies himself at a crafting table, constructing a fire and placing it down. He sits there while some pork cook, the flames casting attractive orange shadows onto the boy sitting too far away for Dream’s liking.

“Here, eat,” he hands the porkchop over but George doesn’t move to take it. “Please, you need to heal,” Dream pleads him, practically forcing it into the other’s hands.

He sits there with the pork in his hand with an odd expression on his face. Dream couldn’t place it. It wasn’t exactly disinterest, but not exactly interest either. 

“Eat,” Dream prods again, settling back on the other side of the fire. “George.”

As soon as he says it the boys eyes snaps up. Even with the tint of the fire he can see George pinken, starting at his nose, and spreading across to the tips of his ears and down his neck. He looks away with a slight uncomfortable smile resting on his face. They sit there in silence as George finally starts to eat, both of them thinking of what to say. 

When George finishes he finally speaks up, “Look, I guess I am grateful that you didn’t kill me, but what the  _ fuck _ are we doing?”  _ We?  _

“ _ We?” _ Oops. Dream looks down, staring at the pattern the jungle grass makes in the dirt.

“Well, mostly you,” the brit says with attitude, but there issomething more there. “But I am healing now, so I could probably go,”  _ No please don’t.  _ “But I can’t. I can’t go.”

Dream’s heart studders and he takes a breath in. “Y-you can’t or you don’t want to?” His voice sounds more bothered than he had intended.

George sighs and moves his grasp from his knees he tucked upward, to grab at his hair. He rubs his face briefly before he involuntarily groans and reaches for his heart. Dream scrambles over. He didn’t need an answer. Not yet.

As he gets there, he reaches to see the wound. He grabsGeorge by the wrist in one hand, and holds at the small of the older’s back with his other. His thumb graces George’s fingers which are lightly set atop the injury, small glimpses of skin breaking through the bloodied hole in his shirt. His other hand, spread flat against his back, slowly glides up to hold at the nape of his neck.

The boy shivers, out of cold or otherwise. Dream noticed this and rushes into his bag to bring out a light blue sweatshirt. “You’re cold, here,” Dream hands over George’s sweatshirt and shook as the expression across his face lit up, still not giving Dream all of the information he wanted. 

“You, you kept this?” George grasps at the fabric and looks up a Dream who is busy moving himself back into George’s personal space.

“I- uh yeah,” Dream stutters. Before he can find the right way to explain it he let’s out the truth, “I- uh saw it outside the jungle, and it smelled like you, so I put it in my bag.” He’s scratching at the nape of his own neck now, embarrassment spreading from ear to ear.

George pulls it over his head, carefully moving himself more into Dream’s touch. Dream complies, helping by tugging at the bottom of the hoodie and flattening it out.

“U-uhm,” his voice croaks, hands still on George’s hips. The fire behind them cracks in response, somewhat violently. Some logs fall but the fire grows, the burning seeping through Dream’s back, warming into his chest. “I guess I should explain why I didn’t kill you,” He trys, embarrased beyond explanation. He knows George will see through a lie, but their friendship will be crushed if he tells the truth.

Dream moves closer, his head falling into the empty space above George’s shoulder. Despite sitting on the ground, the size difference remains prominence, even though Dream feels so much smaller as he buries himself in George’s embrace. He moves back now, looking downwards with his forehead gracing the other’s below him. 

He breathes in, preparing to speak. Before he can let out the spew of explanation that built up in his head, George places his thin fingers on his lips. They spark up and burn against the foreign skin. Their eyes meet and soon his heart burns the same as his mouth. George takes his thumb against Dream’s chin and slides his other fingers down, pulling his jaw downward. 

The fire cracked again, sparks flying up and landing between their lips, igniting at the closeness. “This might be a bad thing,” George mutters before trapping the sparks with passion. Heat rises throughout Dream’s entire body, his lips being the source thousands of times hotter than the blazing flames behind him.

He quickly moves his hands from George’s hips and holds tightly at the smaller’s jaw. His thumbs circle through his hair as his mouth explores every inch of the other’s. The heat only builds as they decide to not breath, getting the life they need from the sparks inbetween their mouths. Dream moves one hand to the back of George’s head and the other to his lower back. Desperate to close any space between them, he leans him down, Dream now elevated as the other rests on the ground. 

He shifts so one leg is inbetween George’s two. Curious, he digs in, finding what he was looking for, pressing up against his thigh. He can’t help but grin as the man under him squirms into the contact and moans in the back of his throat. Only taking a short breath, he bites George’s bottom lip, soliciting another godly sound. 

The fire is roaring now, sparks flying every which direction and the wood burns and falls on itself. The flames grow bright orange and cast a deadly shadow on a behind the two men tangled together. The silhouette moves as one, blackness creating an undefined mess of passion. 

The two’s mouths do the same - combine in ways so you can’t tell one from another. George bucks up his hips, grinding into the younger’s leg. Without warning, the man under Dream squirms and turns his head turns away to let out a sick moan, leaving Dream wondering if he had hurt him.

He looks down and see a vague dark spot spread across George’s pants. Oh.  _ Oh. _

George flushes profusely and takes heavy breathes, almost hyperventilating. Dream lets out a small wheeze and he smiles as he meets the gaze of the boy below him. Kissing him twice more he pulls away and whisper against his lips.

“A very good, bad thing.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to just add a note at the end to say thank you to anyone who reads this- except if I know you, please pretend this never happened. <3


End file.
